Sympathy
by Insomnias-Words
Summary: It's been six months since the fall. John never stopped waiting - Sherlock Holmes was many things, but he was not a fake. Sherlock finally returns to his only friend, rid of Moriarty's threat, and life returns to normal - but now both men struggle with their own hidden sympathies.
1. Sympathy

_Disclaimer: I do not own this show or the characters._

* * *

John stood over the grave of his best friend, leaning heavily on his cane. The air was misted with a fine drizzle, and he wasn't sure if it was his current location or the weather that caused the pain in his leg to ache more fiercely than was normal. He would stay though – he always did.

He visited the quiet graveside once a week, no matter the weather. It had been nearly six months now… He'd stopped asking for miracles. Now he just came to remember, and to think. Sometimes he'd ask for help in a case, listing off the facts and clues as if Sherlock would appear and piece them together into the solution only he would see. Of course - he never did. The world was back to one Consulting Detective, and John just wasn't as good. He'd learned so much, but he would never be Sherlock.

He never entirely lost hope though. He'd seen too many miracles from that eccentric man to truly believe he would just let death take him that easily. As for his "note", the desperate plea for John to believe that it had all been a lie, he'd never even entertained the thought. Sherlock Holmes was many things, but he was not a fake.

After a while John turned with a heavy sigh, his boots leading him on an automatic route through the edges of town. He'd opted to walk today, hoping that the exercise would ease the ache in his leg. Maybe it would even begin to numb the one in his chest. The weather was unseasonably cold, a biting wind that grabbed at the edges of his jacket and found its way through the fabric. He quickened his pace, much as he could with the cursed cane at his side, and held back a shiver.

Not for the first time he found himself wishing for a warm hand in his and a tall figure walking alongside him. He bit down on the thought, forcing his mind elsewhere. He'd barely allowed himself to consider the possibility when he was ali- here… Now Sherlock was gone, and to even think about what might have been – what some part of him would admit that he had _hoped _could have been – was too painful. So he kept walking, flipping up the edge of his collar against the cold and burying his hands in the pockets of his coat. He was still alone.

* * *

Sherlock watched him leave, only emerging from the safety of a hidden alcove once the limping figure was far enough down the empty street. A fine dusting of rain covered his dark jacket, and he seemed immune to the chill in the wind.

Something in him – a small part that he consistently ignored – bid him to run after John. To halt his retreat and tell him, finally, that he was still here. But of course, Sherlock acted only upon logic. It wasn't that he didn't feel emotions – he did, sometimes nearly even at the same level he imagined others felt them. They were interesting to examine, but it was his firm belief that they should remain quite independent of logic and decisions. That was the problem with other people – they never could separate the two.

It was for that very reason that he waited, watching the fading figure of his best – only – friend until he'd turned a corner towards the center of town. John wouldn't see things the way he did, a decision devoid of emotional connection (or at least, that was what he told himself). This had to be done carefully, or else John may never forgive him. If it were anyone else he wouldn't care – even Mrs. Hudson's judgment meant relatively little to him. But this was John… He was different. He mattered.

_Sympathy. _Sherlock nearly scoffed – the irony was not lost on him.

He'd been traveling in these six months, destroying the threads connecting Moriarty to Sherlock – or rather, the people Sherlock cared about. Even for him it had taken time. So much time, spent on tracking down leads or arranging for certain variables to be… removed.

It was strange though. For so long Sherlock had lived a solitary life, and he'd been entirely content alone. He'd relished the silence, the lack of other peoples' senseless emotions and words spoken for no reason other than to fill the air. When he was alone there was no one to force him to speak, to distract him or tell him to stop playing his violin at 4 am when he couldn't think.

But after meeting John… He found that he didn't quite like being alone anymore. More than once he'd caught himself speaking aloud, talking to someone worlds away in that little flat on Baker Street. He shook his head, again suppressing the strange urge to follow John right this moment. The ghost of a smile lit his features and he shook his head – yes, John was different, wasn't he.


	2. Don't You Care?

_Disclaimer: I do not own this show or the characters._  
_Opinions? Critiques?_

John made his way slowly up the stairs, flinching from the ache in his leg. He paused when he reached the door to his flat, digging through a pocket for his keys and calling out a welcome to Mrs. Hudson. There was no reply – he wasn't sure if the silence was a burden or a relief. He walked inside and removed his jacket, hanging it up and sidestepping a stack of boxes to reach the kitchen. By the time the storm brewing outside finally broke, he'd settled into a chair with a beer and newspaper in hand.

The flat was a strange mixture of half-packed things and untouched boxes. John had been planning to leave for months now, unable to stand the emptiness that hung over the large flat, but Mrs. Hudson had repeatedly insisted he stay. She'd gone so far as to lower the rent to a price he could afford on his own - he assumed out of a combination of wanting him to stay and a reluctance to clean the organized mess that Sherlock had left behind. Sherlock's things, for that matter, remained untouched – John couldn't bring himself to move them. Some days it even seemed like nothing had changed… But of course, everything had.

Lightning flashed outside the windows of the flat and John folded the newspaper with a disgusted sigh. It had been six months, and stories concerning the suicide of a fake genius _still_sprung up every now and then. One paper had even attempted to approach him for a statement not too long ago – the man had left with a bloody nose. A trip to the bookshelf and he'd retrieved one of Sherlock's books – one of the few fictional stories, and less dull to read through than most – and returned to the chair, settling in for yet another quiet night. Perhaps it would distract his mind… He doubted it.

Hours later, Sherlock hesitated outside the door of the flat. The familiar smells and sounds of the apartment building surrounded him, stirring a strange sense of comfort in him despite his drenched coat and the impossibly pale tone to his skin. He cursed himself for waiting, for allowing himself to be unsure, but he couldn't stop from running the possible scenarios in his head once more. Emotion always made things difficult…

Steeling himself, he let his face settle into a calm mask and knocked lightly on the door. From inside came the sound of a book being set down, and then the shuffling of footsteps. Sherlock flinched inwardly when he heard the awkward clump of the cane, but his face reflected nothing. Then the door was opening, and John was mumbling an automatic greeting before trailing off into silence.

In less than a second, Sherlock read everything. New lines around his eyes and a shabby haircut had aged John beyond just the six months he'd been gone. Uneven stubble spoke of a rushed – or uncared for – shave days ago, and the clothes he'd worn underneath his jacket were slept in. There was no smell of cologne, but the invasive scent of take-out hung in the air. He hadn't started dating again - strange. A quick glance away from John's eyes took in the half-untouched room, the book lying open on the table (wasn't that his?), the rumpled medical bag by the door (working, but sparingly), the tightly shut drawer that probably contained a pistol (worn sides, opened too often – definitely held a pistol), and a hundred other minor details that no one else would see.

Sherlock chose to file away the undisturbed state of his things in exchange for reading the reactions that crossed John's face. They flitted by, his mind seeming to turn from disbelief to pain to denial to some raw emotion that Sherlock chose to not dwell upon. Finally, the hard set of his jaw and flash in his eyes announced that anger had been the final choice. Sherlock observed the coiling of muscles passively – this was expected, he would allow John to act on base reactions without interference.

"Hello John." The words were soft, as if otherwise they would shatter the tension in the air, but his eyes held John's stubbornly. He didn't see the fist, but he knew it was coming – then things went dark.

When he came to a few moments later, he was only partially surprised to feel the familiar seat of the old sofa beneath him. He straightened, eyes immediately tracking John's agitated pacing a few feet away. The cane lay abandoned by the front door.

"You were dead." John stopped directly in front of him, his voice restrained but laced with anger and some other conflicting emotion. Sherlock refrained from responding, reminding himself that it would only make the situation worse, and simply raised an eyebrow as if to say "is that so?" John's eyes narrowed and Sherlock forced his features to smooth again. "Why?" The question, a demand really, lent no room for movement.

"I had to, John. Moriarty's men had to think I was dead, or they would have killed everyone connected to me. There was no other choice." Sherlock's voice was calm and logical, a façade which only seemed to fuel John's anger.

"There's always a choice Sherlock. Always. You could have told me. You could have let me in on the plan, instead of reading me a goodbye note swearing that everything you were was a lie and then leaving me to think you _dead_. I saw your body in a morgue – I was at your _funeral_." He paused, looking like he was resisting the urge to kick something. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. "Do you have any idea what that felt like? How could you-" but instead of words, he simply turned away.

Through the entire assault Sherlock sat entirely still, spine rigid and unmoving. Normal people always seemed to insist on throwing everything they perceived as a fault back at the one they blamed. But John wasn't normal… What he said mattered. Couldn't he see that Sherlock already knew? That he'd already mulled over exactly how much he'd been forced to hurt John? Didn't he realize that Sherlock, loathe as he was to admit it, was hurt too? Terrified, in fact, that John would send him away. Emotions whirled inside of him, but he kept them capped off and distant. He always did. John was turning back to him now, body rigid, and Sherlock sighed inwardly.

"How could you make me think you were dead? It's been _six months_. Six months since I watched my best friend jump to his apparent death. Did you know that I was part of the investigation? That they thought I was involved in Moriarty's death and your 'schemes'? Little did they know you wouldn't even include me in the knowledge that you _were alive_." his voice rose at the last two words, and Sherlock exhaled slowly – he was finding it increasingly difficult to remain calm. Of course he'd known about the investigation, it had been he who'd hacked the files and dissuaded them from John so quickly. For a moment it seemed as if John was finished, but angry people seemed to lack the ability to discern when to quit. "I know you don't care about trivial things like emotions, but-"

The mask shattered. Sherlock's face was a rigid line of barely restrained anger, fueled by six months of loneliness and at least a touch of betrayal. In less than a second he was standing, towering over John and bearing his face down within inches of the shorter man's.

"You really think I don't care John? Do you? Do you really imagine that I was off on vacation for six months, perfectly content to gallivant off on my own while the people that I cared about were left to mourn?" Anger lit his voice now, the frustration of the mad trip Moriarty had forced him on layering his words. "I _had_ to jump John. There were gunmen stationed only feet away from each of you – Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, you, everyone – waiting to pull the trigger. Moriarty killed himself so that there would be no way out. _I had to jump_. He had hundreds of men at his command – I couldn't let you in on the plan because if a _single one of them_ even entertained the _thought_ that I was still alive, they would have murdered all of you for the _fun _of it! That was where I was for six months – making sure that every one of his webs were cut, so that I could come back to my life here without risking yours in exchange. Don't you _see_ John?" at this point his voice was almost pleading. John needed to see – he needed to understand. "I couldn't live if they destroyed you."


	3. Breathe

_Disclaimer: I do not own this show or these characters._

John staggered back a step, the hard lines melting away from his features. The tall figure in front of him remained rigid, but shifted his form away from John's immediate space. With the anger ebbing away, John realized how very tired he was. And how relieved. Six months of the ghost of a presence haunting his thoughts, of partially solved cases and mistrustful glances, of holding so much anger and sadness at Sherlock's 'death'… They were still there, still a scar burnt into his memories, but a massive weight had been lifted.

For the first time he let himself really appreciate that Sherlock was _here. _He wasn't lying dead in some grave, but alive and well (well – come to think of it he didn't look all that great, but he would fix that later). He replayed Sherlock's words in his mind and nodded, glancing anywhere but his eyes. He hadn't meant to throw all of that anger at him… After all, he really hadn't been the one who'd been forced to stand alone for six months, had he. He raised his head, still avoiding his eyes, to speak.

"I'm s-"

"I'm sorry John." The voice cut over his, an angry tone replaced by one that held too much sadness. A pale hand reached out, almost hesitantly, to grasp his shoulder, and he looked up to meet Sherlock's eyes. They observed him, reading his expression carefully, but at the same time almost seem to plead with him. For Sherlock to apologize – to admit that he was _wrong _about something – was a rarity in itself, but it was the level of emotion hidden beneath those words that gave John pause. When he spoke again his voice was softer. "I'm so sorry. I wish things could have been different. I wish I could have told you, and saved you the pain. But I just couldn't. I couldn't risk it." A short pause, and the clinical tone had returned. "Say the word and you'll never have to see me again John. You can go back to your life, and I'll be nothing but a memory."

John watched Sherlock blankly for a moment, unsure of what he'd just heard. Leave? Why would he think- Oh this was Sherlock all over. Moving from Point A to Point X and discarding any useless emotion that might enter the equation in the process.

"No- Sherlock, no. I don't want you to leave. But what are you going to do about the police? Everyone thinks you dead, but if they see you you'll go right back to being a suspect."

"Good. I wasn't _really_ planning on leaving anyways." Sherlock seemed to entirely ignore the rest of John's words, turning abruptly and reclaiming his spot on the sofa. He sprawled out on the old thing, his long body taking up the entire length of the couch, and allowed the ghost of a smile to enter his expression. John watched him for a moment, unable to move as the feeling of familiarity swept over him, until Sherlock turned to face him once more. Dark eyes watched him, gauging his reactions, calculating where they stood.

John reminded himself to move and tore his eyes away from that gaze, turning to sit in the chair he'd vacated at the knocking on the door. Sherlock pulled a phone from the pocket of his still drenched coat – wasn't he freezing by now? – and pressed a few buttons. He didn't speak as Moriarty's voice began to drift out of the small device.

John listened in shock to the conversation. It was Sherlock and Moriarty, two masters scrambling to find the higher ground. From their words he immediately gathered that it was their last conversation, moments before Sherlock had jumped. A flashback to that day – to looking up and seeing his best friend framed against the sky like a dark angel ready to fly, to the blood on the concrete and the pale crumpled figure – left him shaking as he listened to the venom in those words. To the desperation in Sherlock's voice. He barely noticed the silence when the recording was over.

"Lestrade will find a copy of this recording, entirely unaltered, on his desk in the morning. My name will be cleared by tomorrow afternoon – some manipulation by the British government will help speed things along quite a bit." So he'd already spoken to Mycroft. "John?" Two cold hands were on his, a face marked with the slightest hint of worry appearing in front of him. "John I'm here. It's over. Breathe."


	4. Promise

_Wow I have so many reviews for this and it's only a few chapters in – thank you all. I swear the chapters won't always be this short. All of your reviews and comments are greatly appreciated.  
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters or this show._

Sherlock watched John carefully, a small part of his mind noting how warm his friend's hands were under his own. Slowly, John's eyes refocused on him, and the color returned to his face. Sherlock allowed himself a small smile as John took a deep breath and grinned at him sheepishly.

"I'm sorry for hitting you, by the way." Sherlock only shrugged.

"I've had worse." he said easily, returning John's smile with a real one of his own this time. The movement caused the ache in his jaw to worsen, but physical pain was simple to ignore. He began to straighten up, planning on returning to the sofa, but John moved his hands so that they cupped Sherlock's.

"Aren't you cold?" he asked, concern entering his features. He shot Sherlock's coat a disapproving glance, and Sherlock remembered that he was indeed nearly dripping wet. Even in the warmth of the flat, the cold coat still clung to his skin and sent chills through him. He'd had to walk here from where he'd been told to meet his brother's mouthpiece – he hadn't spoken with Mycroft in person yet, that conversation would happen once he'd proven useful. Sherlock couldn't help but take a small sense of comfort in John's concern… It had been a long while since someone had worried over him.

"Oh, yes. The weather outside is so typical of Britain – I think I'd forgotten what it was like to see rain nearly every day." He removed his hands from John's, tugging at the edges of the wet coat as he moved towards his room. If John showed any reluctance at his leaving, Sherlock certainly didn't see it. "Would you mind setting some tea to boil? Mrs. Hudson will return soon, and I think she'll have need of it." He didn't bother to ask if his clothes were still in his room – judging by the state of the living room alone he knew John hadn't thrown them out.

"So you took up working on cases?" Sherlock asked, gripping a cup of warm tea between his hands. He drank a sip of it, closing his eyes and allowing the warmth to spread throughout him. For a moment, he reveled in the sense of being at _home_. Then he was carefully watching John again, gauging where they stood. He seemed mildly surprised at the question, but didn't bother to ask how he'd known.

"Yes… I did learn quite a bit from you. I can help sometimes, but I'm not nearly on your level - I sometimes think Lestrade just calls me in for pity's sake." He swirled the tea in his own cup, watching it for a moment before looking up at Sherlock. "Why did you tell me you were a fake Sherlock? In your 'note'. We both know it's not true – hell, you just came back from the dead, and if anyone could do it, it was always going to be you. So why?"

Sherlock blinked, setting the cup down slowly. So John never had believed him – he had to admit that a small part of him had stubbornly hoped that that would be the case. So many people were so ready to believe that it was all a lie, that someone _that_out of the ordinary was simply a fake; the same people who'd called him a freak his entire life. But John had always been the exception – from the minute he'd met Sherlock he had been amazed, instead of put off or angered, by his intelligence. That was something else he'd been terrified of losing.

"I hoped that it would make it easier for you. To move on and go back to a normal life." he said simply. "If you believed that it was all a lie, then I thought maybe you would be too angry to mourn for long. And, logically, the police would find you less of a suspect if you were just as surprised and betrayed as them." He reached forward to fidget with the cup, still watching John. He didn't mention the fact that most people would be glad to have him out of their lives.

John shook his head silently. Sherlock took in the annoyance that crossed his features with careful thought.

"It didn't- It wouldn't have…" John sighed. "From now on, how about we make a deal to tell the truth? And not just take the easier route?" Sherlock nodded, making a mental note of it but knowing that he would still lie to protect John in an instant regardless. John seemed satisfied with his easy agreement, and was just leaning back with his drink when the door downstairs opened loudly.

"It appears Mrs. Hudson has returned – I don't suppose I should go speak with her first?" Sherlock asked with a grin.


	5. Laughter

_Disclaimer: I do not own these characters or this show._

John made his way down the staircase, thoughts whirring through his mind. Less than two hours ago, he'd been sitting alone in a dark flat. Before that he'd been standing by a grave. And now his best friend had returned, seemingly coming back from the dead, and was lounging on his couch as if nothing had changed. Sherlock was alive; he could barely wrap his mind around the idea.

"Hello dear?" Mrs. Hudson repeated, waving a hand in front of his face. He focused on her, pulled away from his thoughts. "You aren't going to make an old lady bring the rest of the groceries in alone, are you?" she asked, waving towards the door with her free hand. He opened his mouth to speak, but simply nodded and went out to fetch the other bags.

He helped her put the items in their respective places, hovering uncertainly by the door long enough for her to notice. She shot him a questioning look, something in his face causing her to place another cup besides her own as she went about preparing tea.

"What is it, dear?" she finally asked, leaning against the counter. How did one tell another that a friend had returned from the dead? He shook his head and gestured that she should sit, waiting until she'd taken her place to begin.

"I need to tell you something. Something has- well, I don't know quite how to say this. Just, don't think I'm insane. I was sitting in my flat reading, and there was a knocking, and well-" she was scowling at him, and he realized that he was just rambling at this point. "Sherlock is alive." He laid the words out on the table, forcing himself not to flinch. He studied her carefully, waiting for the scorning thinning of lips, or features turned white in shock. Even questions of his sanity – God knew he questioned it enough himself.

None of it came though. Instead, the old lady's face broke out into a broad smile, and in a moment she was standing once more, the cup of tea forgotten on the table.

"Oh Sherlock's back!" she exclaimed cheerily, crossing over to her doorway. "Is he upstairs? Oh, of course he is, where else would he be." Something in his shocked look must have affirmed her guess, because she headed out the door and began to climb the stairs with an uncharacteristically lively step. When he appeared in the doorway, face blank and thoughts entirely scattered, she only paused to motion him after her. "Well don't just stand there, come on."

He followed her into the doorway of his flat – when had it become so crowded? – to see her greeting a standing Sherlock with a tight hug. He returned the hug warmly, a genuine smile on his face.

"Hello Mrs. Hudson. It's been a while." She pulled away and looked him up and down, scowling at him with a (mostly) false sternness that didn't hide the happiness in her eyes.

"Look at you, stick thin and still freezing. Oh, don't give me that look." she was already walking towards the kitchen, apparently planning on cooking him a real meal. She stopped in the doorway long enough to nod towards John and add "Shame on you for worrying your friend like that." before disappearing into the other room.

For a second only the clanging and bustling sounds from the kitchen filled the room. Then John spoke, his voice low and emotionless.

"She knew." It wasn't a question.

Sherlock turned towards him, the smile that lit his features faltering. John tried to pretend that he didn't feel a stab in his chest at being the cause.

"Of course." he said, voice returning to its level and even tone. John moved to say something else, his eyes narrowing slightly, but Sherlock read the small motion and spoke first. "I had to John – how else could I make sure you were safe?"

"You could have just told me where you were, if apparently everyone else could know." He hated the bitterness in his tone, and the way it seemed to age Sherlock's eyes, but he couldn't stop it.

"Not everyone, just Mrs. Hudson and Molly, and the latter was a member of the original plan. She doesn't even know that I've returned yet." He sighed, and for a second John saw just how tired the tall man must be. The artificial light that lit the room outlined the dark circles that lay beneath his eyes and the new hollowness to his cheeks. His skin was too pale, too grey, and his clothes seemed to hang on him rather loosely. His eyes, watching John with what in anyone else might have been a pleading look, were hard but tired. He had always been a rock, standing firm against most petty things such as emotions and sympathy. Now, he just looked tired.

"John," his voice carried an unstated 'please', "I couldn't tell you because you-" for a minute he seemed at a loss for words, pausing and glancing away. "You matter. Alright John? I couldn't risk you acting differently and attracting unwanted attention, or trying to find me." He took a step closer, eyes searching for something. Understanding maybe? "And you would have, if you had known. You would have come to find me and you might have gotten hurt. You might have been killed. This was the only way."

Everything in John rebelled against Sherlock's reasoning – keep him in the dark to keep him safe – but he couldn't bear to speak against this tired wraith. His plan did make sense, and he seemed almost desperate to convince John of his logic. John nodded slowly, relieved to see some of the tension drain from Sherlock's form.

"Why then?" He couldn't keep from asking, because he was honestly curious as to why, but this time his voice held no trace of bitterness. A small smile came to Sherlock's face, as if the answer were obvious.

"Who else could I trust to keep you safe? I had to have someone watch out for you and make sure you didn't do anything too foolish." Exactly what he meant by foolish was left unsaid, but John nodded again and smiled wearily. After a moment's thought, a kind of giddy laughter bubbled up in him, and soon he was laughing. Sherlock scowled at his reaction in confusion, appearing to hover between the decision of walking to him or staying where he was.

"Only you, of all people Sherlock, would run off to who knows where to take out a web of assassins and thieves, and still think to set up a babysitter for your best friend while you're away." Sherlock allowed himself a smile, and after a second he was laughing too. John tried, unsuccessfully, to push away the warmth that rose in him at the sound of that laughter again after so long. Oh God. He shook his head, the laughter increasing until he felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He was falling for his best friend, wasn't he. What a day.

That was how found them when she returned to the room – John and Sherlock giggling like children. She simply smiled and went about setting the table, the flat quickly falling back into an air of everything being as it should.


	6. Observations

_Sorry it's been a while, but here - you get a longer chapter, as promised. Reviews, critiques, etc. are always appreciated.  
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters or this show._

Sherlock scanned the small, dusty room in front of him. His eyes flicked from detail to detail, scenarios and facts pouring to the front of his mind. Thoughts ground together, flying to the forefront only to be tossed away, running through his head like a movie in fast-forward. A strange rush of energy flew through him – he was back. The game was on. But first…

He clenched his jaw and clasped his hands behind his back, forcing himself to take a breath and step sideways out of the doorway. "John?" The shorter man stepped up to his side, standing an almost imperceptive distance farther than normal – since Sherlock's return two weeks previous John always seemed to hover either too near or too far from him (but then, it wasn't the only thing to have changed in their relationship) – and looked between Sherlock and the body with a question clear on his face. "This is your crime scene, is it not?"

John scoffed at that, although his gaze changed instantly and he was already taking command of the scene with a few searching glances around the room. "Since when do you care about legalities?"

_Since I wanted to see how far you've advanced._Sherlock bit down on the thought and offered a thin smile, a hand gesturing John forward to the scene. "You seem to have been doing perfectly fine on your own – I'm simply here to advise at the moment, you heard Lestrade." John's smile faltered at something in his words, but Sherlock's thoughts were racing and the impatience must have shown on his face, because John simply nodded and stepped deeper into the room.

Sherlock watched his flatmate now with the same attention he'd given the scene only a moment ago. John picked his way to the center of the room, where a man in a trenchcoat lay dead, carefully avoiding the scuff marks in the dust which marked signs of a struggle. His gaze was sharp, examining minute details as he circled the figure, bending down or moving clothing ever so slightly now and then, reading clues from almost nothing. The thoughtful frown on his face matched Sherlock's own.

After a few moments spent in silence – Lestrade was talking down a furious Sally Donovan outside – John finally looked up at him. His bearing was different than before, more aware and in charge, and when he spoke his tone was clinical, but his eyes were a bit tight, almost anxious. "Scuff marks on the floor indicate two assailants, both men by the looks of it. The victim was an important man at one point, but fallen on hard times – the trenchcoat is of a good make, but worn down and tattered. Unmarried, late 30s, license and ID removed to make it look like a simple mugging, light tan indicates that he's not from the area. He was killed by a river and brought here about 12 hours ago – there's still mud in his shoes, that'll give Anderson enough to go by for location – so they made an effort to stage the scene. Cause of death is the obvious stab wound to his chest." He finished his report and watched Sherlock for a reaction.

He certainly hadn't seen everything Sherlock could see – he doubted anyone else ever would – but John had done in a few minutes what would take a team of investigators hours. And he'd seen more than they would have while doing it. Sherlock felt his lips twitch into a proud smirk – so John had been paying attention.

Lestrade called down the corridor, appearing in the doorway a moment later. He immediately looked towards Sherlock, but a nod in John's direction corrected him. John quickly recounted the evidence that he'd just stated.

"And the stab wound, how did that happen?" Lestrade asked, eyeing the only visible mark on the man's body. Sherlock's mind had already played out the entire scenario before him, and he crossed the room to stand behind John without a second thought. The answer was straightforward enough after all, and he'd seen how far John had come already.

"The assailant stood behind the victim with the weapon – a dagger or knife of some sort, long enough to impale through the chest entirely – in his left hand and grabbed round his neck," his arm circled John's neck with a loose grip, "before stabbing him through the area near his heart and thereby severing several major arteries." He pulled John against him, wondering at the way the man stiffened in his grip, and gently touched the spot on his back that marked his heart. At this angle the stab would have been rough, but deadly enough. For a fraction of a second he found himself distracted by the nearness of his flatmate – he could smell the shampoo he'd used that morning, a clean scent that mingled with his cologne to create something that seemed so familiar that he found himself pressing forwards against John's back.

Before his whirring thoughts could get back on course though, John was already pulling away from him – rather roughly, at that – and finishing his statement. "Yes, and then he bled to death within minutes." His voice was slightly gruff, an edge there that Sherlock didn't entirely understand. "Any other questions?"

They were sitting in the back of a cab, returning to 221 Baker Street, before Sherlock finally worked it out. "You don't trust me." His voice held no emotion – he wouldn't admit that something humans were so prone to could cut him as deeply as it did.

"I don't?" John pulled his attention away from the street outside, giving Sherlock a look that hovered between incredulous and bored, as if he couldn't decide whether he was joking or not.

"You stand farther away at times, and you stiffened and pulled away at the crime scene today." John was giving him a look that clearly read 'so what Sherlock', and he rolled his eyes. "You've held my hand, and jumped in front of a bus before on my word. I return and you nearly flinch at a touch. You've stopped trusting me." Now he let his face fall a bit, but the clinical tone remained in his words. John froze with some realization, and when he spoke it was slowly.

"What if I don't? You jumped off of a building and left me to think you dead." Words that should have cut him were barely felt – it wasn't as if he hadn't imagined worse. He gathered his thoughts and tried to explain again, holding back a sharp retort that he knew didn't fit the situation, but John only rolled his eyes at whatever he saw on Sherlock's face – how did he see something where anyone else would only see a calm emptiness? – and returned his gaze to the grey street flashing by. "I still trust you with my life Sherlock. That's not why I- Just leave it."

Interesting. He seemed to be speaking the truth – Sherlock wouldn't admit how relieved he felt upon hearing those words – but then, why… "But John, what's changed then since-"

"Leave it Sherlock." The cutting tone spoke for itself. John would give him no further information now. He faced himself towards the other window to hide a small grin – he'd found his newest experiment then.


	7. So What?

_Sorry for the long wait._  
_Disclaimer - I do not own this show or the characters._

John stood in the kitchen, having just finished pouring himself a cup of tea. His head was pounding, and although there was sunlight streaming in through the slanted shades of the window, it was much too early to be awake after the drink too few he'd had the night before. He grumbled under his breath, already in a sour mood for the day. At least he hadn't seen a sign of Sherlock yet – if he was lucky enough, this was one of the rare times he'd be out.

After the initial findings at the crime scene, Sherlock had gone with Lestrade to pursue the case. Or rather, Lestrade had taken Sherlock with him due to a tenuous agreement with the British government to keep an eye on him for the next few weeks concerning anything to do with investigating crimes. Sherlock had, of course, pompously declared his intentions to act otherwise, and had only gone after being baited with a promise to assist with the autopsy. He'd insisted John accompany him, but he'd refused.

The way Sherlock's face had fallen at that refusal – not something anyone else would have seen, of course, just a minuscule falter that, on Sherlock, spoke volumes – had hurt to see. He paused, hand hovering next to the cup at a small wave of guilt. Considering Sherlock had somehow drawn the conclusion that John didn't trust him anymore only moments previous, spurning his request probably hadn't done much good. But after the look in his eyes when John told him to leave it alone – the exact look he always got when he scented the beginnings of a game – John had needed a few drinks and a break. If he pursued this…

John was snapped out of his thoughts by a warm body brushing up against his as a hand snaked around him to take the cup of tea off of the counter. He froze, his mood pushing him to turn with a sharp accusation on his tongue, and was brought up short by the nearness of his flatmate. Sherlock, wearing his night clothes and robe, towered over him. He held the cup of tea to the side, allowing him to stand close enough for John to smell the pricey, subtle cologne that always hung about him.

John caught himself before he could back away, aware that he was only inches from the counter anyways, but had to wait a moment before he could reform his thoughts into words. He honestly wasn't sure if the pause was caused by the reality of Sherlock here, vibrant and _alive_in front of him (even after weeks he still had to reassure himself sometimes), or the way he was tempted to lean forward against the taller man's chest.

"You couldn't wait five seconds to pour some yourself?" he asked after what seemed like a long pause, raising an eyebrow.

"You were taking too long." Sherlock replied simply, smiling pleasantly and stepping back to allow John to turn away and retrieve a new cup. John didn't miss the careful look in his eyes as he studied him watchfully.

He didn't reply to that statement, instead choosing to nod over his shoulder at the fridge. "There's leftover takeout," he commented, pouring the last of the tea into the new cup and wrapping his hands around it, thankful for its warmth in the morning chill of the flat. "You're welcome to it, if you'd like."

"Not hungry." Sherlock replied flippantly, thumbing through a book on the nearby table as if searching for something hidden in its pages. John barely refrained from rolling his eyes, turning stiffly to head out of the kitchen.

"Whatever." His head still pulsed with a dull ache, and the word carried a sharper edge than he intended. So what if Sherlock had, more likely than not, refrained from eating last night. So what if his last meal was what John had forced upon him the night before last, worried at the gauntness that still hung about his frame from his six month absence. It wasn't his job to baby Sherlock – or to tolerate his games, for that matter. His feet carried him to his own room unbidden, and he hesitated before closing the door a bit too hard and setting his cup down to change. He was going out.

He missed Sherlock's small frown as he glanced up at his retreating flat mate.


	8. Parallels

_I do want to apologize for the random hiatus in this fic – a combination of college apps, extreme family issues, and attending an IB high school while working has left me a bit low on time or energy. I already have the next chapter half-written, so rest assured when I say that this time there will actually be an update in a timely manner.  
Any and all critiques are welcome.  
Disclaimer: I do not own this show or the characters._

* * *

Sherlock was already lying on the couch, his long form unmoving and fingers steepled under his chin, by the time John crossed to the door and left without sparing him a glance. His step seemed slightly uneven, but the cane remained in its position by the doorway. After the first few days of Sherlock's return the old thing had seen less and less use, and he was all too content for that particular pattern to continue. _This _pattern though – John's unpredictable reactions and sudden surliness – was a much less pleasant turn of events.

It wasn't that he'd been foolish enough to expect to return to his old life and continue things like normal. He'd known some things would be different, and after what he'd put John through he couldn't entirely blame him for his behavior. Mistrust was a natural enough response, even continued anger – although seething and grudges had never been a part of John's nature (perhaps a subconscious hesitancy then?). But despite his worst fears of his return, he had allowed himself to entertain the notion that things could, with time, return to normal. John seemed to become more unsettled in his presence by the day though, and darker thoughts threatened to crowd out that hope.

But no, John had claimed to trust him still. Even a trained soldier had tells when they lied, at least to Sherlock, and after all – John had promised the truth. So what else was going on to make him act so strangely? Sherlock took a deep breath, his eyes staring intently at a spot in midair, and began to tick off a mental list.

_Standing too close or too far away – uncomfortable in presence, unconscious changes. Resistance to contact – hints at mistrust, or a conscious decision to pull away. More adamant than ever concerning my eating and sleeping habits – byproduct of the obvious weight loss incurred on my time away. Stolen glances when he thinks I'm not looking – aftermath of my disappearance. A part of him believes I'll leave again. But why care so much? Why, unless he-_

He cut his thoughts off, turning and springing up from the couch in one smooth motion. His lip curled into a sneer and his hands reached to fit into their familiar place on the violin unbidden, his steps having taken him to the window where it rested. A few plucks and basic notes rang out through the air, clear and simple. Then, with the raising of the bow, a complicated melody began to weave through the empty flat.

Bow on string. Expected noise, calculated and exact. Logical. The motion of it threatened to sweep his mind away, a thought process of movement and waves – a linear, simple blessing. But he couldn't help but notice the people on the streets below. Talking, laughing, walking with another. This one was the leader of her little pack, this one was new – prey. This one was trying to court the man beside her, and that one was swaying with an idiot's early afternoon drunkenness. Pieces and bits of their lives floated up to him, piercing through the glass window and swirling through his mind. So many people, living out their _boring _lives in their own little worlds, so oblivious to everything outside of it.

A discordant note rang out and the bow froze in a clenched fist. Useless information, cluttering his mind. He turned away and began to play once more, but his thoughts disobeyed him - ignored the distraction, turned back to John. Behavior and explanations flew across his mind, but he only grit his teeth and set the violin down tensely.

_ Sympathy_. What a waste.

* * *

John took a deep breath, watching his surroundings carefully. He hadn't gone to the pub – not this early in the afternoon, and not when the hangover of last night was still thudding dully at the base of his skull. He just needed somewhere to think, somewhere where he could breathe without being constantly _surrounded _by Sherlock's presence.

That man didn't even realize the space he filled. Not physically, not in that lean- lanky, he corrected harshly – body of his. But in the manic energy of his movements, the intensity of his gaze even when he lay unmoving. He was erratic, eerily omniscient, and an overbearing presence… The flat had seemed so _empty _without him.

He took another deep breath, the cold air stinging his lungs and pulling his thoughts back to the present. Forced himself to watch the people – tried to fall back into the pattern of observation he'd trained into his thoughts. They walked by, each living in their own little world, each with their own story to tell. It was fascinating. Once Sherlock had… left, he'd begun to sit down and try to discern the small details. Tried to learn to observe.

A man with a young girl, expensive phone in his palm and a stiff smile cast in her direction. She seemed content to simply chase after small butterflies in the grass, but his posture was nervous and his clothes too expensive. Divorced. Lawyer, or business man – he only saw his daughter on the weekends, and only recently. He didn't understand yet how to interact with her, but there was kindness in his smile – he would learn. A woman stood tensely, phone to her ear and stress lining her features. Bad news, probably financial judging by the state of her clothes and the weariness in her stance. Hopefully things would work out for the best. Farther away, a couple walked with hands clasped, laughter drifting across the park. It seemed genuine, and the openness on each of their faces spoke of a strong relationship that he found he almost envied, although he did not begrudge them their happiness.

Other things stood out to him, of course - little details about each of the men and women and their individual lives. But it all took concentration, close attention and thought. Before long, he simply let his gaze wander, mind contentedly calm and drifting.

Nothing would ever happen with Sherlock – that was a truth he'd always known – and there was no use in changing his behavior in some search to hide anything from him. Sherlock had shown his hand, had revealed that he did indeed care, and possessed oh-so-human emotions. _Sympathy_, he thought with a small smile. But the younger man certainly wasn't one who cared to deduce emotions, or matters of the heart. If he simply relaxed, things would return to normal before long. And after all, that was what he wanted, wasn't it?


	9. Return

_See, I promised I'd have a new update soon enough! Sort of a filler chapter, but a much longer chapter coming up - would've been part of this, but I decided to split it. Again, any critiques or comments are much appreciated, and thank you so much to everyone who's stopped by to say something kind, and who followed the fic/me.  
Disclaimer: I do not own this show or the characters.  
_

* * *

John walked through the door of the flat a few hours later, carrying two bags of groceries with him. When Sherlock had been gone, most of his dinners had consisted of takeout, a few beers, or whatever leftovers could be salvaged from the back of the fridge. He'd been far too tired and drained most days to gather the energy to make a real meal, never mind do the shopping.

But now Sherlock was back, and John was sure to keep enough decent food in stock for the times when he could be persuaded to eat. He would never admit it, but the gauntness in Sherlock's face, and the way his skin clung too tightly to the bones when he'd returned, scared him. A few weeks of rest - as much rest as Sherlock would allow himself, when he wasn't pacing and restless for lack of mental stimulation in the little flat – and food had filled him out a bit again and returned the color to his skin, but John still kept a watchful eye on him.

He considered calling out a greeting, but simply shrugged and placed the bags on the counter loudly. No doubt Sherlock had known since before he'd reached the stairs. He began to sort through the groceries, falling into the familiar task of putting each item in its place. A whole bag was emptied by the time he heard a rustling behind him, his own attention focused on inspecting a questionable looking bag of strawberries on the lowest shelf of the fridge, and turned quickly to locate the source.

Sherlock was standing behind him, less than a foot away and with a new package of strawberries and a gallon of juice in his hands.

"You're awfully jumpy." He said, raising an eyebrow and not bothering to disguise a small smirk. There was a question somewhere in the sentence, and John only shrugged.

"I'd gotten used to being alone." He took the containers, turning before he could see whatever reaction the words elicited. They'd been said without malice, but he immediately regretted them. He hadn't been the only one on his own.

"I suppose so." More rustling, and when John turned around Sherlock was already crossing back to hand him more containers. Opting for a safer subject, he took the new containers and shot him a questioning look.

"Since when do you help with groceries?"

"Do I need a reason?" He simply smiled, his eyes unreadable – not that that was out of the ordinary – and turned back to sift through the bag. John put the containers away and leaned against the refrigerator, crossing his arms and allowing himself a small smile. Sherlock pulled out two more containers, this time not refrigerated, and glanced at them before looking to John for direction. John only rolled his eyes and nodded towards the pantry, earning an indignant look for the effort.

"Well, if you deemed yourself human enough to _eat _more often, perhaps you'd know where the food went?" He teased, crossing the kitchen to help with the rest of the bag.

"Alright. Dinner at Angelo's tonight then?" The man didn't even miss a beat, and John paused to glance at him in surprise. Sherlock was reading the label of a can of peanuts, rolling his eyes disdainfully at something - probably the redundant claim that the product _may_ contain peanuts. He didn't seem to think the question anything out of the ordinary, and after half a second John resumed his path and began shuffling through the few things remaining at the bottom of the bag. _Of course he'd ask me to Angelo's, he probably wants to discuss the case_, he chastised himself, shaking his head at his own momentary overreaction. This was good though, another sign things were returning to normal.

"News from Lestrade?" He looked up in time to catch a nod, and mentally checked over his list of things to do today. It was a very short list. "Alright, let me just take a shower and clean up a bit. The hangover's gone, but I'll feel better with a shower and some food in me." Sherlock chuckled at some private joke and brushed past him to place the last few packages of food.

Not expecting any other response, John glanced around the kitchen – shockingly everything was in its place, save one thing – and, satisfied, left to shower and change into some clothes that didn't look half slept-in.


End file.
